dnb 


SPARKS   AND 
FLAMES 


POEMS 

By 
Henry  Wilson  Stratton 

With  a  Preface  by  Hezekiah  Butterworth 


M.    F.    Mansfield  &   A.    Wessels 
New  York 


Copyright 

.809 

M.  F.  Mansfield  &  A.  Wessels 


To  the  Spirit  of  Poesy :  which 
warms  and  vivifies  the  cold 
routine  of  daily  life,  and  illumines 
our  minds,  quickening  perception 
of  inward  truth :  these  poems  are 
dedicated. 


(preface. 


In  these  days,  when  verses  are  almost 
as  thick  as  roses  in  June,  it  is  only 
poems  of  distinct  inspiration  that  have 
a  new  field,  and  make  an  impression 
and  live.  The  poems  in  this  collec- 
tion may  claim  distinct  inspiration 
and  to  have  the  mission  of  inner  sight. 
The  thought  is  occult  ;  it  interprets  ; 
it  deals  not  with  effects,  but  with 
causes.  It  seeks  the  Soul  of  things. 
It  interprets  life. 

It  is  said  that  there  is  nothing  that 
can  be  imagined,  desired,  or  sought 
that  cannot  be  achieved.  The  writer 
of  these  poems  has  had  to  struggle 
against  dimness  of  outward  vision. 
But  like  the  compensations  that  came 
to  Milton  and  Blacklock,  and  even 
to  old  Homer,  his  inward  vision  has 
been  opened  and  his  soul  sees. 

The  poems  express  this  inward  light 
and  sight.  They  belong  to  the  hidden 
spiritual  world.  And  yet  their  vocab- 
ulary is  large  and  unique  ;  and  their 
figures  of  speech  not  only  beautiful, 
but  most  happily  chosen.  Some  of 
the  comparisons  between  the  seen  and 
the  unseen  are  like  visions  :  they  re- 
move the  veil,  and  afford  glimpses  of 
the  whole  universe  of  life,  that  spirit- 
ual sphere  in  which  all  things  are  one. 
It  gives  one  pleasure  to  commend  a 


work  of  such  rare  literary  and  spiritual 
qualities.  It  is  a  beautiful  book  of 
the  soul,  and  to  those  who  live  for 
the  soul  it  cannot  fail  to  be  a  most 
helpful  revelation  of  new  thought.  As 
music  Is  the  highest  language  of  the 
soul,  so  much  of  the  thought  of  the 
book  is  associated  with  themes  of 
this  divine  art  of  interpretation.  The 
writer  himself  is  a  musician,  and  so 
has  often  made  music  the  subject  of 
his  poems. 

Every  one  must  wish  such  a  volume 
the  largest  success,  for  it  has  distinct 
inspiration  and  makes  clearer  the  light 
of  life  and  brighter  the  spiritual  hori- 
zons. It  has  a  mission — may  its 
readers  be  many. 

HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 


Contents. 
jt 


To  March, 11 

O  Life  I  Thou  Beauteous  Fire 12 

Sun-Blood 13 

To  Life 15 

The  Sun-Christ, 16 

At  Dawn 17 

At  Eve 18 

The  Circle  of  Life 19 

The  Peak  of  Night .20 

Lyric  to  an  April  Morning, 21 

The  Angel's  Mission 22 

True  Music,            24 

God's  Organ, 25 

The  Army  of  the  Grasses, 26 

Feathered  Music, 29 

June 31 

To  the  Leaves 32 

To  a  Clover  Blossom 33 

Strawberries, •         .34 

Idyl, 35 

Sun-Money, 36 

Alone, 39 

June's  Thunder  Bell 40 

To  a  Rose,      . 42 

Summer's  Song 43 

Sunrise, 44 

Reverie, 46 

The  Bell-Buoy,       .        . 47 

Her  Voice,      .        . 49 

Dead  Sunlight 51 

Dead  Soul-Light 52 


PACK 

Hurrah,  Boys  ! 53 

Sunbeam  and  Moonbeam, 54 

Out  in  the  Night 55 

The  Death  of  Summer. 57 

The  Land  of  Silence, 58 

Autumn  Pictures,  .         .         .  .         .61 

A  Bunch  of  Grapes 62 

In  a  Factory, 63 

Silence, 65 

The  Fire  of  the  Leaves, 67 

Where  Then  is  Music?  '.....  68 

Love's  Freedom,    .......  69 

To  an  Autumn  Leaf 70 

The  Coming  of  Winter 71 

Passion  and  Peace 74 

Riddle  of  the  Snow-Flakes 75 

The  Snow-Cloth  Makers 76 

Her  Touch 78 

Reversible  Poem, 79 

East  and  West 81 

To  My  Love  Across  the  Snow,       ...         .83 

Young  Christmas, 84 

Wrinkled  Brow  and  Dimpled  Chin,        .        .        .85 

Morn  and  Night, 87 


Loud  trumpeter  of  Spring! 
Blowing  the  wintry  notes 
From  out  the  tune  of  things, 
That  warmer  tones  may  float 
Through  music's  honeyed  realm- 
Soon  to  thy  blare,  so  bleak, 
The  flower-flutes  shall  reply, 
And  up  and  down  their  stems 
Sing  forth  their  leaf-notes  green  ; 
Then  shall  the  'cello  bees 
Buzz  into  unison 
With  piccolo  of  bird ; 
While  zephyrs  draw  the  bow 
O'er  strings  of  twig  and  bough, 
Making  sweet  violins 
Of  all  the  budding  trees. 
Blow,  trumpeter !  blow  out 
The  frozen  chords  of  sound; 
Blow  in  the  warmth,  the  life, 
The  harmonies  of  heat. 


(By  kind  permission  of  "  The  Youth's  Companion.") 


&tfe!  £0ou  Q^eaufeous  Site! 


incendiary  Spring  ! 
How  at  thy  touch  all  life  is  set  a-burning  1 

Thine  is  the  power  to  bring 
Anew  to  Matter's  realm  the  spiritual  yearning. 

Behold  each  spire  of  grass  ! 
A  slender  flame  of  greenest  animation  ! 

The  zephyrs  as  they  pass 
Fan  the  fresh  fields  to  emerald  conflagration. 

Up  fly  those  sparks  so  bright  — 
The  bee  and  butterfly  in  showers  exciting, 

To  wing  their  minute  flight, 
Oft  in  the  green  combustion  re-alighting. 

White-hot  the  daisies  burn  ! 
The  brands  of  buttercup  and  dandelion 

Each  other's  glow  return, 
While  jets  of  color  burst  from  many  a  scion. 

The  furnace-trees  o  'erf  low 
With  molten  verdure,  fast  their  lives  consuming  ; 

While  petalled  pink  and  snow 
The  surge  of  leafy  heat  are  bright-illuming. 

With  bluest  fire  of  day, 
Blazed  o'er  with  gold,  with  fleecy  smoke  inblending, 

Mark  how  the  dome  of  May 
O'er  all  this  loveliness,  in  love  is  bending! 

0  Life  !   thou  beauteous  fire  ! 
Though  unto  few  thine  inner  self  revealing, 

Thy  color-sheaths  inspire 
The  hearts  of  all  with  holiest  thought  and  feeling. 

(By  kind  permission  of  "  The  Youth's  Companion") 


Golden  heart  of  Day  ! 

Beating  midst  the  blue, 
Swung  from  gray  to  gray 

Into  mortal  view. 

How  through  arteries  wide 

Of  uncharted  sky, 
Pours  thy  yellow  tide 

Surging  silently. 

How  thy  sun-blood  warm 
Thrills  the  veins  of  air, 

Tingling  Morn's  fair  form 
Into  rapture  rare. 

In  the  glory-flow, 

Hark,  the  feathered  throng! 
Darting  to  and  fro — 

Corpuscles  of  song. 

Hear  the  twigs  and  boughs — 
Bones  of  Day  they  seem, 

Stretch  themselves  or  drowse 
In  ecstatic  dream  ; 

Sucking  up  the  gold 

Streaming  thickly  down, 

Flesh  of  green  to  hold 
Forming  on  the  brown. 

See  the  grasses  dip — 
Nerves  of  Day,  so  fine, 

Feeding,  root  and  tip 
On  the  ample  shine. 


With  papillaed  reach 
Feeling  for  the  world, 

Quivering  forth  the  speech 
Deep  in  ganglia  curled. 

List  the  breezes  breathe — 
Day's  emotions  large, 

How  they  sigh  and  seethe 
With  her  soul  in  charge  ; 

Blow  her  thought  awake 
Into  scent  and  bloom, 

And  the  life-pulse  shake 
From  each  seedy  tomb. 

Flow,  O  blood  of  flame, 
Round  your  circuit  sweep! 

Till  her  quickened  frame 
Into  beauty  leap, — 

Till  your  amber  hue 

With  the  earth-stains  rife, 
Sullied,  passing  through 

All  the  forms  of  life, — 

Changed  to  light  unseen, 
Darkened  into  heat, 

To  the  sun-heart's  sheen 
Makes  a  glad  retreat  ; 

Through  night's  purple  vein 
Pulsing  large  and  free, 

Eager  to  regain 
All  its  purity. 

Thus  your  ring  complete, 
Wondrous  in  its  might — 

Death  of  light  in  heat. 
Birth  of  heat  in  light. 


O  Life !   'tis  wondrous  sweet  to  live  for  thee 

And  feed  the  soul  upon  thy  liberty  1 

Yea,  gorge  the  soul  and  be  an  epicure, 

Thy  freedom's  daintiest  morsel  to  allure! 

Few  fatten  on  thy  rich,  imperial  food  ; 

Few  are  the  banqueters  at  thy  vast  table ; 

For  most  to  be  thy  guests  are  still  too  rude, 

Or  deem  the  splendid  banquet  but  a  fable. 

Most  are  but  nibblers  of  the  glorious  fare 

That  thou  hast  spread  for  all  with  generous  care  ; 

Their  careless  lips  are  strangers  to  thy  wine  ; 

They  never  taste  thy  flavors  so  divine, 

Nor  sme!l  the  spicy  odors  that  arise 

In  sprays  of  fragrance  from  thy  fair  supplies. 

Most,  with  a  hasty,  undigested  glance, 

Swallow  the  mouldy  bread  of  ignorance, 

And  grow  dyspeptic  on  their  discontent, 

Some  panacea  e'er  seeking  to  invent 

That  shall  renew  the  stomach  of  their  lot ; 

Yet  with  its  deathful  diet  quarrel  not. 

And  who  shall  give  these  starving  millions,  eyes, 

The  leanness  of  their  lives  to  realize  ; 

Their  skeletons  of  spirit  to  behold, 

And  lack  of  that  immortal,  vital  gold  ? 

Who  shall  awake  their  dumb,  inert  repose, 

The  deaf  ears  of  indifference  unclose ; 

Teach  them  to  touch  and  smell  and  taste  at  last, 

The  largess  of  thy  bountiful  repast  ? 

Who  but  the  joyous,  heaven-proclaiming  poet  ? 

For  truth  o 'erf ills  him  and  he  must  o 'erf low  it — 

List  to  the  music  of  the  muse  of  song  ! 

She  sings  of  thee  unto  the  deathward  throng ! 

Now  blow !  ye  breezes,  waft  her  theme  along  I 


;  C^rief  . 


Now  from  the  tomb  of  night, 

Dawn  rolls  the  cloud  away  ; 

And  wrapt  in   glory  bright 

Rises    the    Lord    of    day. 

The  essence  of  the  dark  awakes  its  primal  pomp  to  claim  ; 
The  east,  all  crimson-dappled,  breaks  in  spray  of  golden  flame  ; 
The  morn,  hid  in  the  under  world,  now  lifts  the  lid  of  gloom, 
And  poising  for  her  blueward  flight,  unfolds  her  wings  of  bloom  ; 
Light,   crucified   in  yester's  sunset   gore,   its  hue   redeems; 
The  Sun-Christ,  resurrected,  shines  with  glad  immortal  beams. 

Up   from   his  twilight   bier 

His    amber    spirit    springs, 

While  musics  far  and  near 

Unfold  their  raptured  wings. 

Mist-memories  of  his  death 

In  scarlet  scars  and  seams 

Fade  as  the  morning's  breath 

Blows  in  the  purer  beams. 

Tis  nature's  saviour,  come 

Her     life-pulse     to     renew 

And  teach  her  soul  so  numb 

To  find  the  heavenward  clue. 


16 


When  twilight's  rosy  fringes 
With  stars  are  beaded  round, 

And  from  the  nest  of  silence 
Comes  many  a  winged  sound  ; 

When  color-sprites  are  painting 
The  drowsy  blooms  awake, 

Plying  their  dewy  brushes 
The  fairest  tints  to  make  ; 

When  up  the  dawn,  some  zephyr 
Comes  searching  for  the  sun, 

Breathing  the  first  beams  onward 
Until  the  mighty  one — 

The  sun-heart  of  creation — 
Throbs  into  glory  bright, 

Beating  its  golden  rhythm 
Through  all  the  veins  of  night ; 

Oh  then  how  sweet  to  wander, 
Companionless  and  free, 

Careless  of  care,  unthinking, 
Wrapt  in  the  things  that  be — 

Lost  unto  self  and  sorrow, 

Vanished  from  conscious  sense, 

Merged  in  the  golden  splendor — 
Here,  yet  forever  hence. 


When  twilight's  purple  fringes 
With  stars  are  beaded  o'er, 

And  in  the  ear  of  silence 
A  thousand  musics  pour 

Their  soft,  subduing  measures ; 

When  from  the  sleeping  blooms 
The  spirit  floats  in  fragrance 

Across  the  shimmering  glooms ; 

When  down  the  sky,  some  zephyr 
Comes  searching  for  the  moon, 

And  blows  the  prelude  glimmer 
Into  the  full-orbed  tune  ; 

When  leaves  like  spirit  voices 
Call  to  the  startled  soul, 

And  whisper  of  those  beauties 
That  through  the  ethers  roll ; 

Oh  then  how  sweet  to  wander, 
Companionless  and  free, 

Careless  of  care  unthinking, 
Wrapt  in  the  things  that  be  ; 

Lost  unto  self  and  sorrow, 

Vanished  from  conscious  sense, 

Merged  in  the  magic  beauty — 
Here,  yet  forever  hence. 


i3 


Circfe  of  fetfe. 


Life  is  coming,  life  is  going, 

'Midst  the  paths  of  peace  and  pain  ; 

Endlessly  the  blood  is  flowing 
Back  and  forth  in  heart  and  brain. 

To  and  fro  the  breeze  is  breathing 
Through  the  mighty  lungs  of  air  ; 

Up  and  down  the  sea  is  seething 
Like  a  monster  in  his  lair. 

In  and  out  the  stars  are  stealing 
'Tween  the  folds  of  day  and  night  ; 

Far  and  near  the  bells  are  pealing 
In  the  depth  or  on  the  height. 

Wings  are  somewhere  always  whirring. 

Echo  never  is  at  rest, 
Motion  is  forever  spruring 

Onward  to  some  goal  unguessed. 

Love  itself  is  ever  changing, 
Constant  things  to  fickle  turn, 

God  seems  ever  re-arranging, 
Lest  mankind  His  secret  learn. 

'Tis  a  race  of  endless  running 
For  a  prize  unknown  and  far  ; 

'Tis  a  chain  whose  circuit,  cunning, 
None  may  imitate  nor  mar. 

Ours  it  is,  to  simply  follow 

Round  and  round  with  willing  feet, 
Be  it  hill  or  be  it  hollow, 

Trusting  in  His  love  complete. 

19 


of 


To  climb ! 

The    time 

Sublime! 

Your  heaven  is  here. 

0 f    truth    is    near, 

Now     tier     on     tier 

Awake  your  sleeping  sight! 

Your      invitation     bright — 

Dawn?    Tis   the    peak    of    night, 

All  things    the    call    to     rise    obey. 

Fragrance    and    music    lead    the    way. 

The    dark    slants    up    to     find     the     day, 

Why  mount  ye  not  the  spirit's  sunward  slope  ? 

Starless  and  moonless,  strangers  unto  hope — 

What   is   your   comfort   as   ye    onward    grope? 

Whose    cold    nocturnity  no  spiritual  ray    illumes, 

Shut  in   the   silence    dread,    of    self-created    tombs 

O    ye    who     dwell    amid   the    deep   material    glooms, 

(Read  from  bottom  -upwards) 


ic  to  an  $prif  (Jttorning. 


0  April  morn  !  blithe  April  morn  ! 
What  though  my  life  of  joys  is  shorn, 
Bleeding  from  discord's  jagged  wound, 
The  strings  in  Pleasure's  harp  untuned, 
Given  the  staff,  denied  the  strain, 
Jarred  by  the  piercing  notes  of  pain, 
Until  my  spirit  worn  and  wrung 

With  eager  music  all  unsung, 

Sends  forth  a  heavenward  yearning  cry 

Claiming  its  need  to  sing  or  die  — 

Ah,  me  !  what  though  all  tossed  and  torn  ! 

With  thee,  I  cannot  feel  forlorn. 

Thy  sunbeams  flash  through  all  my  frame, 
Re-kindling  Hope's  expiring  flame, 
Thy  bird-songs  ripple  through  my  heart 
And  solace  to  my  thoughts  impart. 
Thy  zephyrs  waft  my  night  away, 
And  now  I  glimpse  Joy's  breaking  day. 
My  pulses  catch  thy  glowing  mood 
Quick-beating  forth  their  gratitude. 
The  Spring  that  makes  thy  presence  bright 
So  thrills  me  with  its  fresh  delight, 
That  I  am  Spring  —  the  Spring  is  I  — 

1  am  the  breeze  —  the  birds  —  the  sky— 
O  April  morn  !  blithe  April  morn  I 
With  thee,  my  life  anew  is  born. 


(By  permission  of  "  The   Youth's  Companion") 


(Jfcngef  0 


An  angel  flew  to  earth  one  night 
And  paused  in  a  star-illumined  dell, 

Where  sat  a  youth  whose  soul  was  bright 
With  more  of  truth  than  books  can  tell. 

But  o'er  the  brightness  of  that  soul 
Deep  yearning  like  a  shadow  lay, 

And  held  within  its  dark  control 
His  shining  life,  a  helpless  prey. 

Oh,  greenly  fertile  was  his  mind, 

But  parched  and  barren  was  his  heart, 

Minerva  to  his  lot  was  kind 
But  Venus  had  forgot  her  part. 

For  knowledge,  yea,  he  ever  yearned, 
He  sought  to  lose  himself  in  lore, 

The  while  for  love  his  spirit  burned  ; 

But  now  his  hope  was  scorched  and  sore. 

The  angel  saw,  then  flew  afar 

To  where  a  maiden  knelt  in  prayer, 

Her  tresses  bathed  in  moon  and  star, 
Disordered  by  a  drear  despair. 

Wild  wept  her  spirit  to  its  God  — 
"  Father,  how  long  this  boon  deny? 

Alone,  unloved,  the  way  I've  trod, 
I  pray  Thee,  now  my  need  supply." 

Between  those  wistful  stranger  souls 
Love-threads  of  gold  the  angel  wove, 

Till  in  that  web's  resplendent  folds 
The  sufferers  felt  each  other's  love. 


Led  by  that  visitant  divine, 

At  last  each  other's  eyes  they  knew, 
And  o'er  their  lives  through  shade  and  shine 

The  angel  bent,  though  hid  from  view. 

O  ye  who  oft  for  love  have  cried, 

Be  sure  that  God  your  need  will  meet, 

Nor  space  nor  time  can  e'er  divide 
The  hearts  that  for  each  other  beat. 


£rue  Qttustc. 


True  music  dwells  not  in  the  outward  notes, 
But  in  the  depth  and  silences  between  — 

E'en  as  the  flower  is  in  the  breath  that  floats 
Among  the  petals,  fragrant  yet  unseen. 

For  sound  is  but  the  wall,  uncouth  and  plain, 
Whereby  the  garden  of  the  tune  is  known  — 

And  all  the  rhythmic  hushes  of  the  strain 
Are  wickets  in  the  barrier  of  tone. 

'Tis  through  these  narrow  niches  —  nooks  of  rest  — 
That  music's  voice  to  ears  attuned  is  brought  ; 

Tis  through  these  tiny  gates  of  silence  blessed 
That  deeper  meanings  from  within  are  caught. 

Let  those  too  dull  for  music's  finer  charm 
Extol  the  shell  of  song,  the  storm  of  sound, 

But  from  the  storm  remove  each  lull  and  calm, 
And  where  would  then  sweet  melody  be  found? 


0 


An  organ  is  the  Spring, 
And  May-days  are  the  stops. 
The  sunbeams  are  the  keys 
That,  yie  ding  to  the  touch 
Of  music's  master  —  Him, 
The  great  God-organist  — 
Unclose  the  frosty  valves 
Of  bulb  and  root  and  seed. 
The  earth,  as  bellows,  swells 
Her  juices  rich  with  life 
Through  many  a  range  of  pipes- 
From  tiniest  grassy  stalk, 
Flower-stem  and  fluty  reed, 
To  diapasoned  oak  — 
Till  modulated  forth 
In  mingling  melodies 
Of  odor,  form  and  hue, 
Bright  music  blooms  her  way, 
So  ravishing  the  sense 
That  all  her  beauty  rare, 
Pulsing  the  inner  life, 
Enthrills  the  naked  soul 
With  sweetest  ecstasy. 


of  f0e 

* 


Serried  spears  of  Spring 
From  the  seed-sheaths  drawn, 
Driven  to  the  hilt 
Through  the  armor  white 
Of  old  Winter  wan, 
Till  his  frozen  might 
Melts  in  fear  away. 
How  their  eager  blades, 
Ground  to  sharpest  green, 
Tell  the  prowess  large 
Of  their  leader  fair — 
Gentle  amazon, 
Who  with  leafy  shield, 
Azure-helmeted, 
Steps  their  ranks  before — 
Peerless,  sweet,  serene. 
How  her  ensigns  gay 
Purple,  white,  and  gold, 
Flutter  to  the  sun  ; 
By  their  fragrant  folds 
Charming  dull  routine 
From  the  emerald  march. 
How  her  aides-de-camp, 
Butterfly  and  bee, 
Flit  upon  her  will ; 
Calling  into  line 
Standard-bearers  new, 
Bidding  tree  and  shrub 
Bloom  in  "  double  quick  "  ; 
While  the  courier  breeze 
Brings  her  balmy  news 
Of  the  foe's  retreat. 


In  the  verdant  van, 
Sound  the  feathered  fifes 
And  the  drum-corps  loud 
Of  the  woodpeckers ; 
While  a-tween  platoons 
Of  the  plumy  troops, 
Many  a  cricket  band 
Shrills,  in  martial  mood. 
'Midst  the  dewy  glooms, 
Spring  her  tent  unfolds 
Wove  of  dusk  and  stars. 
Then  the  firefly  glows 
On  its  zigzag  beat — 
Sentry  vigilant, — 
And  the  zephyry  scouts 
In  their  sinuous  speed 
Breathe  the  countersign. 
See  the  camp-fires  gleam 
By  the  glow-worm  lit ! 
List  the  rustling  breath 
Of  the  still  brigades, 
Sleeping  on  their  arms ! 
Now,  as  o'er  the  host 
Gropes  the  gradual  dawn, 
From  the  picket  birds 
Breaks  a  fusillade 
Of  ecstatic  notes, 
Music-pellets,  hurled 
At  the  stragglers  white, 
Rear-guard  of  the  frost. 
Then,  as  to  the  files 
Of  saluting  spears 
Dipped  in  glistening  dew, 
Bends  the  royal  sun, 
Bugler  Lark  with  joy 
Pipes  the  signal  clear 
For  a  fresh  advance. 


Rank  on  rank  they  spread 
Over  field  and  fell, 
Pressing  back  the  white 
From  its  prey,  the  brown. 
But  the  King  of  Cold 
Calls  his  cloud  allies, 
And  with  subtle  skill, 
Plans  an  ambuscade 
Of  defiant  drifts. 
Flaky  legions  whirl 
On  the  beryl  brave, 
Till  outflanked,  they  fall 
'Neath  the  sudden  charge. 
Now  lieutenant  May 
Hastens  to  her  chief, 
Bringing  rich  reserves ; 
Armed  with  cartridge-pods 
Shotted  deep  with  seed, 
And  with  pouches  brimmed 
By  the  dust  of  war, 
Pollen-powder  bright. 
At  her  coming  blithe, 
Up  the  mountain  side 
Swift  the  foe  retreats 
To  its  native  peaks  ; 
While  in  victory  proud, 
Winged  warriors  trill 
Paeans  unto  Spring. 
Clovers  flaunt  their  flags 
Of  triumphant  red, 
Daisies,  gay  of  heart, 
Wave  their  pennons  pure, 
Sweet  Arbutus  glows 
Forth  in  rapture  pink, 
And  the  dandelions 
Sumptuously  unfurl 
Oriflammes  of  gold. 


Q^uetc. 


Now  the  merry  feathered  pipers 
Play  the  joyous  Spring-time  in, 

Setting  myriad  feet  a-dancing 
With  the  fervor  of  their  din. 

Robin  trills  his  tripping  measure, 
And  the  lark  sings  out  its  soul, 

Soon  the  blue-jay  joins  the  chorus, 
And  the  crow  with  music  droll. 

Every  leaf  and  twig  is  trembling 

With  the  sweet  aerial  rune, 
From  their  buds  the  eager  blossoms 

Hasten  forth  to  hear  the  tune. 

From  its  seed-house  runs  the  plantlet, 
Leaping  greenly  towards  the  sky  ; 

Flowers  their  petal-wings  are  spreading, 
Tugging  at  their  roots  to  fly. 

Thrush  and  bobolink  and  cuckoo 
Ripple  on  the  blithe  refrain  ; 

On  their  finger-tips  the  grasses 
Catch  the  pulses  of  the  strain. 

Springs  are  bubbling  up  to  listen, 
Running  out  in  rills  of  glee  ; 

Zephyrs  waft  the  seeds  of  music 
Far  and  wide  o'er  hill  and  lea. 

May  hath  ope'd  her  ear  to  hearken, 
Dancing  o'er  the  vibrant  earth  ; 

She  hath  loosed  her  leafy  tresses 
And  her  step  is  light  with  mirth. 

29 


On  her  head  a  cloud-cap  fleecy, 
Sandals  green  upon  her  feet, 

Blossoms  bright  upon  her  bosom— 
Who  to  dance  with  her  is  meet ! 

Play,  ye  merry  feathered  pipers ! 

Fill  the  air  with  sweetest  din  1 
Pipe  your  loudest !  pipe  your  clearest  I 

Pipe  the  dancing  Spring-time  in ! 


(By  kind  permission  of  "  The  Youth'' s  Companion,") 
3° 


Tis  June  once  more  in  field  and  sky, 
In  grass  and  tree  and  flower, 

In  bee  and  bird  and  butterfly, 
In  shine  and  shade  and  shower. 

The  air  is  soft  with  lover's  sighs 
And  sweet  with  scent  and  song, 

A  thousand  tender  lullabies 
Drift  Slumber's  car  along. 

'Mid  hum  and  whir  and  dulcet  trill, 
The  dreaming  Summer  lies, 

Awake  with  every  throb  and  thrill, 
Asleep  with  half-shut  eyes. 

The  day  delights  to  dally  by 
And  drowse  in  golden  light, 

While  with  her  silver-beaming  sky 
Loiters  the  lovely  night. 

Tis  June  once  more  within  my  heart ; 

Through  all  my  life  'tis  June, 
And  buds  of  thoughts  discordant,  part 

To  blossom  into  tune. 


(By  permission  of  "  The  Youth'i  Companion."} 


f  0 


Ye  leaves  1  whose  sound  so  greenly  slakes 
The  thirsty  silence  of  my  thought, 

With  what  a  wealth  of  fragrant  peace 
Your  murmurous  cadences  are  fraught  I 

The  soul  of  Summer  to  me  speaks 
Through  all  your  modulations  sweet  ; 

Soothed  by  your  cool  and  lightsome  song, 
The  day  forgets  its  heavy  heat. 

Unrhythmed  music  of  the  trees  ! 

Breathing  of  things  unseen,  unheard  ; 
Whispering  of  a  world  apart, 

By  dissonance  and  death  unstirred. 

Would  like  a  bird  that  I  might  build 
Amid  your  emerald  shades  my  nest, 

And  trill  away  the  haunting  cares 
That  fill  my  spirit  with  unrest  ! 


(By  permission  of1'  Tfiv  Youth's  Companion") 
32 


j* 

Red  beacon  !  shining  bright 

For  winged  mariners 

That  sail  the  sea  of  air, — 

What  set  thee  thus  ablaze  ? 

Didst  bring  these  ruddy  beams 

With  patient  zeal,  along 

The  stairway  of  thy  cells 

In  some  shut  lantern  hid, 

Lit  by  the  fire  of  life 

Whose  spark  glowed  in  thy  seed  ? 

Or  did  thine  eager  stem 

Climb  to  the  burning  point 

Which  comes  to  pure  desire  ; 

Up-pressing,  till  thy  toil, 

Impetuous  with  hope, 

Burst  into  flame  of  bloom  ? 

Then  was  thy  light  self-made, 

Lustred  from  effort  high. 

And  yet  this  cannot  be, 

For  God  must  have  His  part. 

Methinks  thy  striving  reached 

The  limit  of  its  power 

And  found,  as  striving  must, 

God's  answering  blossom  there. 

Ah,  that  each  human  bloom 

Like  thee  would  upward  strive, 

And  at  self's  limit  find 

The  answering  help  of  God ! 


33 


Nuggets  of  red  sunbeam  ; 

Mined  from  ore  of  green  ; 
Dainty,  ruby  blushes 

From  earth's  face  serene. 

Pyramids  of  perfume, 

Painted  appetite, 
Hunger  from  the  outward 

Crimsoned  into  sight. 

Into  shape  projected, 
Reddened  into  taste, 

Into  smell  translated 
Or  in  touch  encased. 

Hunger  mindward  pressing, 
Pushed  by  void  intense 

In  the  spaces  dwelling, 
Making  stomach-sense. 

Hearts  aglow  and  burning 
With  the  sun-blood  warm 

Music  with  red  pulses 
In  the  tune  of  form. 

Ruddy  rhythm,  beating 

Color  into  song ; 
Tangled  notes  of  perfume, 

Sweet  sonorous  throng ! 


Twas  hand  in  hand  that  star-strewn  eve, 

Adown  the  road  we  came, 
The  hilly  road,  the  winding  road, 

That  ruts  and  grasses  claim. 

Tall  hedges  gloomed  on  either  side, 
But  through  their  darkness  green, 

Anon  a  light,  a  cottage  light, 
Did  send  its  streak  of  sheen. 

The  moon  flung  wide  her  silver  scarf 

Across  the  zephyry  night, 
We  heard  the  neighboring  brooklet  laugh 

In  pebbly,  pure  delight. 

Faint  waves  of  martial  music  broke 

Upon  the  strand  of  sense, 
The  voice  of  silence  dumbly  spoke 

Our  happiness  intense. 

We  echoed  back  the  dreamy  mood 

That  hung  o'er  hill  and  sky, 
Our  spirits  quaffed  the  quietude 

With  cup  of  ear  and  eye. 

Love  fanned  us  with  his  pinions  fleet, 
We  heard  his  bow-string  twang, 

And  through  our  hearts  his  arrow  sweet 
Pierced  with  a  pleasant  pang. 


Glory  of  gold ! 

Nor  bought,  nor  sold, 
Mined  from  the  veins  that  lie  in  the  air; 

Coined  into  beam 

Of  yellowest  gleam, 
Fresh  from  the  azure  mint  so  fair. 

From  stained  cloud-ore, 

The  golden  store 
By  mining  breezes  is  released, 

And  nugget  rays 

All  brimmed  with  blaze, 
Pour  from  the  pockets  of  the  east. 

The  bullion  bright 

Of  sifted  light, 
By  silent  processes  unseen, 

Is  swiftly  cast, 

Moulded  and  massed 
From  yellow  into  richest  green. 

On  bush  and  tree, 

To  all  so  free, 
The  leaves  are  green-backed  into  view ; 

Pledges  are  they 

Made  unto  May, 
Ever  redeemed  in  the  sun's  own  hue. 

In  lawns  and  lanes 

The  golden  grains, 
In  many  a  petal  purse  are  stored, 

While  pouch  of  pod 

And  safe  of  sod, 
Rich  legacies  for  summer  hoard. 

36 


From  beryl  banks, 

In  swelling  ranks 
The  gold  is  drawn  by  seed  and  scion 

Tis  wisely  lent 

At  sweet  per  cent 
To  buttercup  and  dandelion. 

Now  backward  swing 

The  doors  of  Spring — 
Wide  sesame  to  all  the  year ; 

Old  Winter  halts, 

Her  treasure-vaults 
Beholding  with  an  envious  fear. 

In  bulb  and  root, 

Beyond  compute 
Her  wondrous  Eldorado  lies  ; 

'Neath  spade  and  plough, 

In  blade  and  bough, 
He  sees  her  garnered  riches  rise. 

His  form,  cold-white 

Shrinks  at  the  sight, 
Her  beauties  fast  his  being  burn  ; 

On  grassy  pyre 

Of  emerald  fire, 
His  flaky  locks  to  daisies  turn. 

Sun-money  large, 

From  marge  to  marge 
Of  glowing  sky,  profusely  strewn — 

Great  capital 

Reserved  for  all, 
Yet  e'er  in  circulation's  noon, 

No  miser's  hand 
Nor  corporate  band, 
The  largess  of  its  light  restrains : 

37 


No  robber's  scheme 
Nor  idler's  dream, 
For  greed,  its  affluent  amber  gains. 

To  caste  and  creed 

It  pays  no  heed, 
But  yields  its  currency  of  shine 

To  want  and  wealth, 

To  pain  and  health — 
Bright  lesson  of  the  law  divine. 


(fcfone. 
# 

Alone  with  the  whispering  trees, 
With  the  song  of  the  leaves 
Which  the  gay  zephyr  weaves 
Through  the  undulant  boughs 
That  his  greetings  arouse, 
With  the  rush  and  the  gush 
Of  the  leaves. 

Alone  with  my  whispering  thoughts, 
With  the  song  that  they  sing 
As  they  race  in  a  ring 
Round  the  circuit  of  mind 
Some  outlet  to  find, 
With  the  whirl  and  the  swirl 
And  the  twist  and  the  curl 
Of  my  thoughts. 

Alone  with  the  plash  of  the  oar, 
As  the  boat  gayly  glides 
Through  the  spray-tossing  tides 
That  so  silently  gleam 
In  the  moon's  yellow  beam, 
With  the  dip  and  the  slip 
And  the  musical  drip 
Of  the  oars. 

Alone  with  the  throb  of  my  heart, 
With  the  hope  and  the  dream 
That  sail  its  red  stream 
A  harbor  to  gain 
In  the  welcoming  brain, 
With  the  beat  and  the  heat 
And  the  musings  so  sweet 
Of  my  heart. 

(By  kind  courtesy  of  "  The  Youth's  Campania*.") 


jjune'e  £0unber  (feff. 


A  mighty  bell  is  the  sky  so  blue  ! 
And  now  by  the  fingered  lightning  swung, 
With  roll  and  boom  its  thunder  tongue 
Goes  throbbing  all  the  spaces  through  ; 

Ringing  the  earth  up  into  tune, 
Ringing  the  rain  from  cloud  to  cloud, 
Ringing  the  hour  when  blossoms  crowd, 
Ringing  the  jubilee  of  June  ; 

Tolling  far  up  in  its  airy  throat 
Paeans  in  praise  of  summer's  queen, 
Tolling  from  out  the  sod,  the  green, 
Thrilling  the  ground  with  its  triumph  note. 

Ring,  great  bell,  from  the  heights  of  space! 
Calling  the  seeds  with  voice  sublime, 
Pushing  the  trees  to  leafy  prime, 
Bursting  the  buds  with  thy  heavy  bass. 

A  redder  scent  in  the  wild  rose,  ring, 
Into  the  pink  a  dainti  r  hue, 
Into  the  lake  a  deeper  blue, 
Gayer  tints  in  the  butterfly's  wing. 

Reflected  in  its  dulcet  hum 
Thy  welcome  chime  the  bee  has  caught, 
While  many  a  bird  of  thee  well  taught 
Is  thrilling  the  news  that  June  has  come. 

The  surf  its  tribute-laces  brings 
To  the  silvery  shining  feet  of  June  ; 
And  the  sea  replies  to  thy  rumbling  rune 
In  the  surge  of  song  it  hoarsely  sings 


Thy  guttural  glee,  dull  labor  heeds, 
And  soon  from  desk  to  hammock  turns  ; 
While  all  the  din-hurt  highway  yearns 
Some  path  to  be  o'er  dewy  meads. 


,  great  bass  !  while  the  tenor  rain 
Runs  to  earth  with  pattering  feet 
The  mighty  message  to  repeat, 
Drop  by  drop,  to  valley  and  plain. 

Thy  chant  it  sings  in  softer  tone, 
Telling  the  floweret's  petalled  ear 
The  tidings  sweet  —  that  June  is  here, 
Eager  to  mount  her  emerald  throne. 

Ring  the  rainbow  into  the  heart, 
Making  it  glow  with  hopes  as  fair  ; 
Ring  the  rifts  from  the  clouds  of  care, 
Showing  that  pain  hath  a  brighter  part. 

Bell  of  the  sky,  swinging  above  ! 
Swinging  the  silence  into  sound, 
Tell  us  what  clangor  more  profound, 
Shall  ring  the  June  of  human  love. 

That  June  where  vice  and  virtue  rhyme, 
And  life's  uneven  metre  feels 
The  smoothing  pulse  of  music-peals, 
Pealing  the  world's  redemption  chime. 


a  (Roee. 


Dear     flower 
On     my      lapel, 
I      p  r  ay       you     tell 
In    soft    and    fragrant    speech 
Of     her    my    soul     would     reach. 
Your     petals     are      her      parted      lips 
Whence   unto   me  her  sweet   breath  slips. 
The  glow  upon  her  cheek  was  caught  by  you, 
Her  thought   is   in  your   form   so   fresh    and   new, 
Rose    of    my   own    fair    Rose,    cradle    of   Cupid   swung 
Upon  this  heaving  breast  where  her  fond  arms  have  clung, 
What     lavish     memories     at    your    bidding     start! 
June  on  my  coat  makes  June  within  my  heart. 
As      I     behold      your     dewy     red, 
Through  you  our  spirits  seem  to  wed  ; 
Your     luscious     hue     and     scent 
Are    for    our    nuptials     lent. 
Badge     of     my     bliss, 
I     joy     in      this 
Sweet     Hour. 


JJummer  ' 


Listen,  my  soul,  to  the  sweet  song  of  summer, 
Rippled  and  cadenced  from  wing,  wood,  and  wave, 

Rhythmed  so  finely, 

Chorused  divinely, 
Sunbeamed  and  moonbeamed,  stave  upon  stave. 

Hark  1  it  comes  pulsing  from  leaf,  twig,  and  petal, 
Tossing  and  sliding  from  spray,  surf,  and  crest, 

Humming  and  shrilling 

And  daintily  trilling, 
For  music  is  now  at  its  sweetest  and  best. 

Many  a  nook  holds  a  tiny  musician 
Tuning  its  treble  or  buzzing  its  bass  ; 

Each  in  its  labor 

Spurring  its  neighbor, 
Vying  to  win  in  the  resonant  race. 

Full  is  the  chorus,  but  what  is  its  burden  ? 
Why  is  the  summer  so  blithe  in  her  song? 

'Tis  her  rejoicing 

The  music  is  voicing  — 
Sense  of  her  freedom  the  joy-notes  prolong. 

Tune  hath  now  burst  from  the  bondage  of  discord, 
Silence  leaps  up  into  fountains  of  sound, 

Rest  wakes  to  motion,  — 

Thrilled  with  devotion, 
Earth  unto  God  offers  praises  profound. 


J^unrise. 


Blown  by  the  breath  divine, 
The  sun-flag,  purple-fringed, 
With  bars  of  crimson  stained, 
Its  glory-folds  unfurled. 
Far  o'er  day's  turrets  blue, 
The  mighty  banner  swung 
Its  weight  of  majesty, 
Till  night  with  haggard  eyes 
Vanished  in  ragged  haste  ; 
And  all  the  universe 
Was  thrilled  with  ecstasy. 
Beneath  that  ensign  bright, 
Green-breasted  earth  awoke  ; 
So  raptured  by  the  sight 
Her  joy  took  wing  and  sang 
A  thousand  melodies 
That  blent  in  chorus  sweet  ; 
And  field  and  garden  waved 
In  salutation  glad 
Their  floral  pennons  fair, 
From  whose  delicious  folds 
The  playful  zephyr  sprites 
Soft-scented  music  drew. 
The  brook-tune  blithely  broke 
Its  rippling  strains  of  light 
Adown  the  golden  morn. 
Over  the  verdant  sea 
Of  glistening  meadow-dew, 
Bee-piloted,  among 
The  happy  isles  of  shade 
Where  dwelt  the  dreamy  kine, 
Wandered  white  fleets  of  sheep 


Whose  wake  of  silvery  sound 
Tinkled  through  emerald  waves 
That  sporting,  tossed  anon      , 
Their  spray  of  butterflies  ; 
While  deep  'mid  bladed  dells 
The  merman-locust  sang. 
The  wood — cool-corridored, 
Librarian  of  earth, 
Thick-memoried  with  the  past, 
Breathing  of  eldest  time — 
Unto  the  beauty  bent 
Its  green-plumed  reverence ; 
As  if  it  ne'er  had  glimpsed 
Centuries  of  scenes  as  fair. 
0  Nature  !  ever  new ! 
Perpetual  youth  of  God  I 
When  may  we  learn  to  poise 
The  gain  and  loss  of  life, 
And  deathless  live  like  thee'fc 


(By  kind  permission  of  "  The  Youth's  Companion.") 
45 


With  silver  tanglement  of  stars 
The  dark  climbs  up  the  sky, 

Its  round  moon-banner,  fair  and  bright, 
Unfurling  from  on  high. 

Now  o'er  the  purple  plains  of  air 

Those  folds  of  glory  glide, 
Till  nooks  of  night  give  up  their  gloom, 

And  glows  the  welkin  wide. 

From  stain  of  darkness  purified, 

The  earth  resplendent  lies ; 
While  in  that  beauty's  saving  grace 

The  tides  in  worship  rise. 

So,  'mid  a  tanglement  of  thoughts, 

The  sky  of  mind  we  climb, 
The  pure  soul-banner  to  unfold 

From  spiritual  heights  sublime. 

Now,  o'er  the  sorrow-darkened  world, 

Unfurl  our  light  divine, 
Till  nooks  of  life  give  up  their  grief, 

And  sin's  dark  places  shine. 


46 


Beacon  of  sound ! 

Light  for  the  ear ! 
Tolling  of  danger  from  year  to  year  ; 

Pushing  the  keel 

With  vibrant  touch 
Far  from  the  sunk  reef's  ragged  clutch  ; 

Telling  the  helm 

In  moon  or  sun 
Whither  the  channel  waters  run  ; 

Giving  the  fog 

So  dumb,  a  voice, 
Bidding  the  seaman's  heart  rejoice; 

Tolling  of  wreck 

That  must  not  be, 
Soothing  the  riotous  surge  of  the  sea, 

Music  above 

The  waves'  wild  will 
Solemnly  pealing,  "  Peace — be  still." 

Bell  of  the  sea! 

Bell  of  the  sea ! 
Swinging  in  Neptune's  turret  so  free  ; 

Over  the  shades, 

The  shifting  hues, 
Of  endless  greens  and  foamy  blues; 

Over  the  plash, 
The  roar,  the  sweep, 

Sending  thy  salt  notes  strong  and  deep — 
Lonely  as  thou 


Our  lives  are  cast, 
Ringing  upon  life's  sea  so  vast. 

Like  unto  thee, 

Our  brain-bells  toll 
Omens  of  peril  to  the  soul. 

Wide  and  far 

Our  thought-notes  go 
Over  the  billows  of  joy  and  woe, 

Over  the  shades, 

The  shifting  sway 
Of  endless  moods  in  grave  or  gay ; 

Sounding  through  storms 

Of  love  and  hate, 
Sounding  in  hours  of  watch  and  wait ; 

Each  in  its  place, 

Ringing  alone, 
The  self-same  tune  with  changeless  tone ; 

Keeping  time 

Like  thee  with  the  tide, 
That  soul-ships  may  in  safety  glide. 


Q?otce. 


I've  heard  the  bells  at  even-tide 

Their  sweetness  to  the  dusk  confide 

With  silvery,  lingering  tenderness, 

That  did  a  wealth  of  love  express ; 

While  echo's  answering  caress, 

With  equal  sweetness  underlaid, 

Came  gliding  through  the  shadowy  glade, 

Where  in  melodious  musing  mood, 

Companioned  by  the  solitude, 

My  spirit-being  oft  hath  stood. 

I  've  heard  the  sweetest  note  of  bird 
By  soft  affection's  motive  stirred, 
Steal  through  the  slumb'rous,  starry  air 
Amongst  the  dew  and  perfume  rare, 
Across  the  yellow  moonlight  fair, 
Atween  the  lisping  leaves  to  where 
Some  drowsy  mate  within  its  nest, 
Feeling  itself  by  love  addressed, 
With  dulcet  syllable  replies 
And  quickly  to  its  lover  flies. 

I've  heard  the  pensive  plash  of  wave ; 
The  cricket  chant  his  soothing  stave ; 
The  rain  its  melody  engrave 
In  dimples  on  the  silent  pool ; 
The  zephyr  sing  with  accents  cool, 
By  undiscovered  rhythmic  rule, 
Unto  the  parching  grass  and  flowers, 
Unto  the  listless  heated  hours  ; 
The  leaf,  the  breeze,  the  brook,  the  bee, 
Unite  in  richest  harmony, — 


But  all  the  sweetness  I  have  heard 
From  Nature's  music  ne'er  has  stirred 
My  inmost  being  to  rejoice 
As  hath  the  sweetness  of  her  voice. 


Not  a  leaf  so  greenly  waving 
But  is  tomb  for  some  poor  sunbeam. 
All  its  life,  once  shiny  golden, 
In  that  fluttering  form  lies  buried. 
Lost  to  light  and  dulled  to  freedom, 
In  the  green  the  yellow  slumbers. — 
Nay  the  leaf  itself  is  sunbeam, 
Sunbeam  moulded  to  a  solid. 
Every  cell  and  vein  and  fibre 
Is  the  light  wove  into  substance  ; 
Golden  ether  greened  in  passing 
Into  palpable  expression ; 
Crowded  into  firmer  tissue. 
Hath  the  beam  no  final  waking, 
No  release  from  leafy  prison  ? 
Yea!  for  when  the  leaf  is  fading, 
When  again  appears  the  yellow, 
Like  a  spirit  from  its  body 
Softly  glides  the  self-same  sunbeam 
Caught  amid  the  emerald  meshes. 


(By  permission  of  "  The  Youth's  Companion") 


Not  a  face  so  sweetly  smiling 
But  is  tomb  for  some  poor  soul-beam  ; 
All  its  life  once  linked  with  spirit 
Now  in  depths  of  flesh  lies  buried ; 
Lost  to  light  and  dulled  to  freedom, 
Soul,  alas !  in  body  slumbers. — 
Nay  the  very  flesh  is  soul-light, 
Soul-light  moulded  to  a  solid. 
Every  cell  and  vein  and  muscle 
Is  the  light  wove  into  substance ; 
Fire  of  spirit,  fleshed  in  passing 
Into  tangible  expression — 
Earthened  by  some  great  transgression. 
Is  there  then  no  final  waking, 
From  the  body  no  redemption  ? 
Yea!  for  soul,  through  aspiration, 
Of  its  tomb  may  make  a  palace, 
Flesh  is  but  our  downward  thinking, 
Hope  and  faith  and  love  redeem  us, 
Changing  substance  into  spirit 
Till  the  twain  in  one  are  blended. 


(By  permission  of  "  The  Youth's  Companion") 
52 


)  urrafl, 

j* 


With  noise 

Of  shoot  andshout, 

The     merry     rout 

In  South  lands,  or  in  North 

Gives  greeting  to  the  Fourth  ! 

No     civic     feuds     of      long     ago 

These     Liliputian     patriots    know, 

For  them  no  war  of  color,  class  or  creed; 

One  flag  they  love,  one  common  impulse  heed. 

Impartial  powder  burns  the  same,  for  white  and  black  ; 

Both  hold  July's  red  fingers  till  they  smoke  and  crack  ; 

Torpedoes     have     no     bias     in    their    snaps  ; 

One  sulphurous  glory  all  the  children  wraps. 

Such   union  for  their  sires  were  vain 

While  pride  and  prejudice  remain. 

Then    hail    to   happy  youth, 

So  free,  so  near  to  truth  ! 

Long  hath  it  stood, 

This  brotherhood 

Of  boys. 


J5un6eam  fcnfc  QtloonBeam. 


In  my  yester  life  a  maid  I  knew, 
Whose  soul  was  flashed  with  sunbeam  ; 
What  shafts  of  mirth  from  her  bow  of  a  mouth 
Were  shot  by  the  merry  archer  ! 

What  sudden  javelins  of  jest 

She  threw  in  her  mischievous  glances  ! 

The  mimic  warfare  of  her  fun 

No  quarter  gave,  and  asked  none. 

The  sunbeams  overflowed  her  heart 
And  rippled  through  her  tresses, 
Invading  hand  and  foot  and  tongue, 
Cascading  through  her  laughter. 

But  now  her  sun  of  joy  is  set 
Her  soul  is  sad  with  twilight, 
And  in  her  firmament  of  mind 
The  stars  of  thought  are  glowing. 

The  moonbeam  o'er  her  nature  glides, 
Its  girlish  angles  smoothing, 
The  moonbeam  silvers  all  her  voice 
And  in  her  step  it  lingers. 

It  slumbers  in  her  wistful  eyes 
Soft-sifted  through  their  lashes, 
It  shines  about  her  crescent  lips 
In  smiles  of  tender  sadness. 

Ah,  would  I  knew  the  maiden  now 
Suffused  with  moods  of  moonlight. 
I  loved  the  sunbeam  in  her  soul, 
Would  I  might  love  the  moonbeam. 


tn 


O  silver-purple  night, 
Thick-wove  from  dusk  to  dawn 
With  star-strung  threads  of  dark  ! 
Receive  my  panting  soul 
And  slake  its  eager  thirst 
With  draughts  of  silence  pure  1 
Fed  through  sonorous  day 
On  diet  large  of  sound, 
It  craves  such  nectar  sweet. 
Upon  your  azure  airs 
It  yearns  to  be  adrift 
And  feel  the  throb  of  things 
Beat  up  and  down  the  sky  ; 
To  rock  in  riot  sweet 
With  pulses  of  perfume 
Rippled  from  heart  of  flower  ; 
To  bend  with  balmy  boughs 
And  tuneful  tilt  of  leaves, 
Or  eddy  with  the  breeze 
In  sudden  dash  and  dip; 
Chasing  the  stillness  on 
From  brooding  vale  to  vale, 
Wooing  with  whimsic  will 
Soft  hushes  of  the  gloom  ; 
To  flutter  with  the  wings 
That  flit  the  dewy  deeps, 
Or  float  with  yon  pale  cloud  — 
Dream-mist  that  hovers  o'er 
The  cradle-tips  of  moon  — 
So  yearns  my  stiffened  soul, 
Dwarfed  to  its  cell  of  flesh, 
Rigid  from  long  restraint, 

55 


Denied  these  motions  free 
Whose  moods,  voluptuous,  might, 
If  unto  it  transferred, 
Some  supple  sense  unfold 
Moulded  to  mate  the  truths 
Hid  from  our  common  sight. 


of  Rummer. 


Autumn's  lance  hath  wounded  Summer, 
Piercing  through  her  shield  of  green, 

Till  the  leafy  blood-drops  trickle 
All  her  armor-joints  between. 

On  a  bier  of  soft,  brown  mosses, 
See,  the  bleeding  Summer  lies! 

Gently  breathing  back  the  beauty 
Drawn  from  dew  and  sunny  skies. 

Hark  !  the  pines  with  busy  needles 
Sew  a  chroud  above  the  dead, 

And  the  cones  the  breezes  gather 
For  a  tablet  at  the  head  ; 

Singing  dirges  for  the  glory 

Swiftly  fading  into  dust, 
Mourning  o'er  the  ruthless  rigor, 

O'er  the  law  of  nature's  must. 

Autumn  stands  above  the  conquered, 

In  her  russet  sandals  shod, 
Sad,  remorseful,  proudly  leaning 

On  her  lance  of  golden-rod. 

Musing  on  her  fallen  sister, 
Musing  how  they  quarrelled  so 

As  to  which  in  truth  was  fairer 
And  the  stronger  to  o'erthrow. 

Now  she  weeps,  and  all  her  tear-drops 
With  the  soil  are  quickly  wed, 

Soon  to  spring  in  fragrant  clusters 
Of  the  checkerberry  red. 


of  JJifence. 


Oh,  for  a  land  of  silence  I 
Where  sound  is  ever  dumb, 

And  all  the  notes  of  music 
Like  spirit  pulses  come  ; 

Where  song  is  but  an  echo 
From  out  the  spaces  caught, 

By  loom  of  fancy  woven 
From  feeling  into  thought  ; 

Where  tongues  forget  to  utter 
The  whisp'rings  of  the  mind, 

And  speech  by  lips  unspoken 
Is  by  the  eyes  divined  ; 

A  land  of  hue  and  fragrance 

Afar  from  gong  and  bell, 
Where  sound  is  all  transmuted, 

Perceived  through  sight  and  smell, 

Redeemed  from  crude  expression, 
Withdrawn  from  outward  sign, 

Known  only  as  a  motion, 
Felt  through  a  sense  divine  ; 

Caught  up  to  heights  of  color, 
Revealed  in  state  of  bloom, 

Tuned  into  touch  with  spirit, 
Breathed  in  a  rare  perfume  ; 

Hidden  in  painted  music, 

Lost  in  the  frozen  brook, 
Heard  in  the  opening  petal, 

Voiced  in  the  print  of  book. 

58 


The  noise  of  falling  star-beam, 
Of  fading  sunset  hue,        t 

The  impact  of  a  shadow, 
The  glisten  of  the  dew  ; 

The  bird-note  heard  in  impulse 
Ere  from  the  bill  it  slips, 

The  plash  of  oar  suggested 
Ere  in  the  wave  it  dips ; 

The  leaf  in  act  of  lisping, 
The  wing  about  to  hum, 

The  storm-god's  arm  uplifted 
To  beat  his  thunder-drum  ; 

The  something  left  to  muse  on, 

A  tale  not  wholly  told, 
A  riddle  of  the  ages 

For  spirit  to  unfold  ; 

The  ghost  of  sounds  that  might  be 

But  never  can  be  free, 
Wearing  the  chain  of  silence, 

Stilled  by  its  stern  decree  ; 

Freer  because  of  silence, 
In  fetters,  yet  unbound, 

Denied  the  zone  of  matter, 

Sound  held  aloof  from  sound ; — 

Such  is  the  realm  I  sigh  for, 
With  hints  of  earth-land  rife, 

Or  say  this  rude  existence 
Hints  at  that  higher  life  ; 

For  sound  is  but  the  shadow 
By  rays  of  silence  shed, 

And  though  our  souls  be  lighted 
Our  feet  in  darkness  tread. 


O  silent  land,  and  holy  ! 

Where  is  your  kingdom  fair? 
Amid  the  pores  of  ocean, 

Within  the  cells  of  air  ? 

Where  ears  forget  to  listen, 
And  where  sensations  fail 

To  pierce  with  vibrant  lances 
The  hardened,  fleshly  veil  ? 

Where  nerves  refuse  to  thicken 
The  thought-films  into  speech, 

Or  thin  the  outward  musics 
The  inward  sense  to  reach  ? 

Far  in  the  deeps  of  feeling, 
High  on  the  steeps  of  mind  ? 

In  dream?  in  death?  Oh,  tell  me, 
Where  I  your  land  may  find. 


$ufumn  ^pi 


i. 

The  roadway  winds  'tween  swaying  rows  of  green  and  gold, 

Whose   boughs  in  friendship's  arch  entwined,  display 

The    throne    of    Autumn,    whence    anon 

Mute   leaf  -  canaries  fly 

In  fluttering  flocks. 

I  lean 

On  mossy  rocks 

And  view  the  pumpkins  nigh, 

That    lie    like    golden    nuggets     on 

The  ground,   well-guarded  by  a    proud    array 

Of  podded  poles  and  corn-stalks,  'gainst  the  staring  wold. 

II. 

Its  yellow,  yearning  leaves  to  curl,  the  grape  vine  tries; 

And   now,    I   see   alighting   on   its   trellis-top, 

A  plump,  red-breasted  music  sprite, 

Who  looks  with  lonesome  air 

Upon   the   view 

Serene ; 

His  comrades  flew 

Ere  he  perchance  was  'ware 

To  greet  the  South  ;   now  in  his  flight 

He    sees    a    leaflet    from    its   kindred    drop, 

And    winging    where    it     fell    he    chirps    to    sympathize. 


Q$unc0  of 


Tune  with  purple  pulsss 
Pitched  in  key  of  light, 

Clustered  notes  of  fragrance, 
Music  heard  through  sight  ! 

Cone  of  purple  sunbeams 

Nested  in  the  vine, 
Filled  with  joy  of  juices  — 

Light  wove  into  wine  I 

Life  through  matter  moulded 

Into  roundest  shape  ; 
Thought  in  globed  expression, 

Soul  in  form  of  grape  ! 

Family  of  planets, 

Orbed  from  seed  and  bloom, 
Stamped  with  spheral  birthmark 

From  creation's  womb  1 

With  a  mighty  meaning 

Every  globule  swells, 
For  in  form's  deep  language 

God  His  purpose  tells. 


3n  a 


The  air  goes  round 

With  rims  of  sound, 

Off-thrown  from  many  a  busy  wheel  ; 

In  curve  and  sphere 

I  seem  to  hear, 

In  circling  grooves  I  think  and  feel. 

My  fancy  curls, 

My  reason  whirls, 

My  sense  of  straight  hath  lost  its  sway  ; 

A  wheel  am  I 

And  round  I  fly 

The  outward  impulse  to  obey. 

What  fragrance  fine 

Of  oak  and  pine 

Comes  rolling  from  the  screaming  saw! 

What  buzz  and  boom 

Thrill  through  the  room 

And  startle  with  a  sudden  awe  ! 

Each  swift  machine 

With  mighty  spleen 

Tears  from  the  wood  its  soul  of  scent  ; 

While  at  the  shock 

Bodies  of  block 

Turn  into  dust  with  loud  lament. 

Anon  there  slips 

A  rain  of  chips 

From  churring  lathe  or  sliding  log  ; 

And  'midst  the  roar 

Of  cut  and  bore 

The  workmen  shout  as  in  a  fog. 

63 


From  rift  to  rift 

Their  voices  drift 

Across  the  strange  sonorous  mist, 

Whose  pulses  throng 

My  nerves  along 

Like  influence  from  a  hypnotist. 

My  ear  it  charms, 

My  tongue  it  calms, 

Its  motion  stills  my  power  to  think; 

'Neath  its  control 

My  drowsy  soul 

Must  soon  slip  o'er  oblivion's  brink. 

But  with  a  swirl 

A  shaving's  curl 

Upon  my  ample  beard  is  caught ; 

The  spell  it  breaks, 

My  spirit  wakes 

To  belt  anew  the  wheels  of  thought. 


JJtfence. 


Have  you  ever  stood 

In  the  Autumn  wood, 
Alone  with  its  crimson,  gold,  and  umber, 

When  all  was  still 

With  a  nameless  thrill, 
And  the  breeze  was  wrapt  in  fragrant  slumber  ? 

When  naught  befell 

To  break  the  spell 
Save  the  snap  of  a  leaf  grown  ripe  for  falling, 

Or  the  hubbub  harsh 

From  a  far-off  marsh, 
Or  din  of  crows  in  the  distance  calling  ? 

Did  you  ever  bide 

At  the  turn  of  the  tide, 
When  from  the  ebb  with  eager  wooing, 

In  sudden  swirl 

The  waves  did  curl, 
Unto  the  strand  their  vows  renewing  — 

As  if  the  deep 

Awoke  from  its  sleep 
With  a  startled  sense  of  its  lonely  being, 

And  surged  through  the  kelp 

With  a  cry  for  help 
From  the  fear  in  its  mighty  bosom  fleeing  ? 

Did  you  ever  kneel 

With  a  dumb  appeal 
By  the  shrouded  bier  when  the  flowers  were  springing. 

And  hear  in  your  soul 

The  death-bell  toll 
Your  loved  one's  curfew,  ruthlessly  ringing? 


When  you  and  your  doubt 

Seemed  all  shut  out 
From  the  beauties  of  color  and  song  around  you, 

And  soothing  words, 

And  cooing  birds, 
Seemed  links  in  the  chain  of  grief  that  bound  you? 

Did  you  ever  move 

In  the  world-worn  groove 
Of  streets  with  hoof  and  wheel  sonorous, 

Unseen,  unknown, 

No  welcoming  tone 
Sounding  for  you  in  the  clamorous  chorus ; 

'Mong  sleek  and  slim, 

'Midst  the  vender's  vim, 
And  the  tongues  of  trade  in  ceaseless  babble ; 

One  of  the  throng, 

Yet  thrust  along 
Alone,  apart  from  the  roar  and  rabble  ? 

Then  unto  you 

0,  one  of  the  few, 
To  know  what  silence  is,  'tis  given — 

That  hallowed  hush, 

Amid  the  crush 
Of  things  by  fate  so  rudely  driven. 

Your  soul  imbued 

With  solitude, 
The  dross  of  daily  living  loses, 

Till  buoyant,  free 

The  truth  to  see, 
The  paths  of  peace  it  gladly  chooses. 


$tre  of  f0e 


With  her  torch  of  golden-rod 

Autumn  sets  the  woods  a-burning, 

All  the  green  of  tree  and  sod 
Into  blaze  of  beauty  turning. 

See  the  flames  of  every  hue 

Down  the  emerald  arches  sweeping, 
Avalanching  on  the  view 

Like  a  rainbow  tempest  leaping. 

How  the  leaf  -sparks  redly  fly 
'Midst  the  rustling  conflagration, 

Smoulder  into  brown  and  die 
Out  of  shape  and  animation. 

Through  the  furnace'  crimson  glow 
Screams  the  jay  so  bluely  winging, 

While  his  answer  harsh,  the  crow 
From  the  topmost  pine  is  flinging. 

Creaks  the  wain,  and  barks  the  dog, 
Rings  the  teamster's  whoa  emphatic, 

Thuds  the  tune  of  axe  and  log, 

Breaks  some  childish  shout  ecstatic  : 

As  the  tinted  tide  of  heat 

Bubbles  redly  from  the  mosses 

Into  checkerberry  sweet, 
Or  in  spray  of  thistle  tosses. 

Hark  !  the  seething  of  the  leaves  ! 

Each  a  fiery  pennon  waving  ; 
While  the  eager  forest  weaves 

To  and  fro  with  color-craving. 

67 


Take  the  cadence  from  the  streamlet, 

Part  the  robin  and  its  strain, 
Rob  the  leaflets  of  their  rustle 

And  the  breeze  from  its  refrain, — 
Where  then  is  music  ? 

Take  the  chiming  from  the  steeple, 
Take  the  tinkle  from  the  sheep, 

From  the  bee  remove  the  buzzing, 

From  the  chick  the  peep,  peep,  peep,— 
Where  then  is  music  ? 

From  the  organ  take  its  pealing, 
From  the  drum  its  hollow  thump, 

From  the  cannon  take  its  booming, 
Take  the  blare  from  fife  and  trump, — 
Where  then  is  music  ? 

From  the  voice  take  modulation, 
From  the  ear  the  sense  of  tune, 

From  the  mother's  lips  the  love-phrase, 
From  the  baby  mouth  the  croon, — 
Where  then  is  music  ? 


Now  through  the  purple  pores  of  night 
My  love  to  thee  is  stealing, 

It  touches  out  the  way  aright, 
Its  sight  is  in  its  feeling. 

Along  the  tunnels  of  the  air 

By  lamps  of  ether  lighted, 
It  swiftly  glides,  anew  to  share 

The  vows  between  us  plighted. 

It  pauses  not  for  walls  that  rear 

Their  arrogant  resistance, 
It  heeds  not  the  surprise  and  fear 

Of  thwarted  time  and  distance  ; 

To  matter  gives  no  countersign, 

To  earth  no  tie  confesses ; 
But  filled  with  potency  divine, 

At  once,  through  all,  it  presses. 

Tis  here  with  me,  'tis  there  with  thee, 
It  flames  between  our  faces — 

Soul-lightning,  fetterless,  and  free, 
It  leaps  across  the  spaces. 

So  through  the  azure  cells  of  night, 

My  love  a  path  is  burning, 
And  quickened  by  its  warming  light, 

Thy  thought  to  mine  is  turning. 


an  Autumn  feeaf. 


Red  tongue  'tween  the  cheeks  of  October, 

Telling  of  thoughts  sublime 
Uttered  in  tones  of  color, 

Cadenced  in  rustly  rhyme  ; 

Thoughts  that  the  summer  has  whispered 

Unto  each  fibre  and  cell, 
Moulded  to  cone  and  acorn, 

Shaped  into  kernel  and  shell ; 

Thoughts  to  the  breezes  confided, 
Breathed  from  the  hemlock  and  pine, 

Formed  into  fragrance  and  sifted 
Through  meshes  of  shadow  and  shine  ; 

Telling  of  woodland  music, 

The  locust's  needle-like  lay, 
The  crow's  jet-painted  clamor 

And  the  blue  note  of  the  jay  ; 

Chorus  of  hound  and  hunter, 

The  sudden  echoing  gun, 
And  the  answering  shriek  of  the  engine 

Upon  its  distant  run. 

But  more  than  all  these  beauties, 

Telling  a  deeper  thought — 
How  with  the  autumn  glory 

A  mighty  truth  is  fraught. 

How  the  great  soul  of  the  forest 

In  sheaths  of  color  fine, 
From  every  leaf  is  passing 

To  join  the  soul  divine. 

( By  permission  of  "  The  Youth's  Companion.") 


Coming  of 


With  drifting  step  old  Winter  comes  apace, 

His  chin  thick-hung  with  beard  of  icicles 

Above  his  snowy  breast. 

Upon  his  staff,  the  tree-trunk  brown,  he  leans, 

His  flaky  locks  in  white  confusion  tost, 

His  breath  sharp-drawn  and  chill. 

From  town  to  town,  from  field  to  field  he  goes, 

Shedding  anon  his  silver-curling  hair 

To  warm  the  frosty  sod. 

How,  at  his  soft  and  crystal-sandalled  tread, 

The  sleigh-bell  chorus  tinkles  glad  salute, 

And  Frolic  runs  to  see  I 

Not  so  the  brooklet  ;  for  with  sudden  dread 

It  hugs  its  timid  tune  its  banks  between, 

And  gives  to  Winter's  ear 

Naught  but  the  icy  skeleton  of  song  — 

The  rhythmic  pulses  of  its  cadence  sweet 

Detained  in  frozen  sound. 

Not  less  afraid,  the  feathered  musics  fly, 

Leaving  their  trills  upon  the  air  to  freeze 

Till  May  the  notes  revive. 

The  flowers,  —  those  birds  who  ne'er  from  earth  escape 

To  flaunt  their  petal  wings  aloft,  whose  claws 

Deep-rooted,  hold  them  fast  — 

Have  moulted  long  ago  their  plumage  gay  ; 

Their  fragrant  voices,  locked  in  Summer's  heart, 

Await  her  kind  return. 

Lapped  in  Lethean  rest,  the  bat  and  bear 
In  Nature's  mother-love  have  put  their  trust, 
Sure  of  her  waking  call  ; 


Dreaming  perchance  of  some  nocturnal  deed 

Of  airy  flight  at  eve,  of  cavern  cool, 

Or  honey-filled  retreat. 

Haply,  our  human  life,  in  truth,  is  sleep ; 

And  things  that  seem  awake,  in  slumber's  boat 

Drift  o'er  the  sea  of  dreams. 

Would,  like  the  brute,  our  souls  might  ever  trust 

The  tender  love  of  God  that  o'er  us  broods, 

Sure  of  His  call  at  last. 

Pace  on,  thou  hoary  patriarch  and  friend! 

Thy  cloak  of  ermine  doff,  and  wrap  the  hills 

Within  its  warming  folds ; 

O'er  bulb  and  root,  thy  palms  white-hot  extend, 

Flake-fingered,  thickly  charged  with  burning  sleet, 

With  crystalled  sunbeam  fraught. 

For,  lo  1  each  fluttering  fibre  of  thy  form, 

Each  frozen  drop  of  cloud-dew,  blent  with  thee, 

Is  tinctured  with  the  sun. 

Thy  garb,  though  white,  is  marrowed  through  with  gold, 

And  with  thy  cold  the  threads  of  heat  are  wove 

In  shining  web  unseen. 

Earth  knows  thy  purpose  well,  and  warms  her  seeds 

Where'er  thy  footsteps  shed  their  snowy  heat, 

Or  fall  thy  fleecy  sparks. 

Tried  by  thy  frozen  fire  and  purified, 

Anew  shall  she  be  born,  brighter  in  hue, 

Sweeter  in  scent  and  song. 

As  moved  the  prophets  three  'mid  furnace  heats, 

So  thou,  amid  thy  conflagrations  white, 

Unscathed  dost  wend  thy  way. 

And  when  thy  head  of  cloud  is  shorn  of  strength, 
Like  that  of  Agonistes,  famed  of  old, 
And  fall  thy  locks  no  more  ; 


When  midst  the  snow-drop  and  the  crocus  gay, 
Thy  tattered  ermine  lies  ;  then  lay  thee  down 
To  thy  well-earned  repose. 

On  Spring's  green  pyre  of  blade  and  leaf  dissolve, 
Till  sun  in  snow  and  sun  in  verdure  blend, 
And  heat  with  heat  unite. 


(peace. 


Peace  and  passion,  passion  and  peace  — 
When  will  your  tilt,  alternate,  cease  ? 
Up  with  the  one  and  down  with  the  other, 
Shifting  about  from  smooth  to  smother  ; 
Here  with  the  tempest,  there  with  the  calm, 
Now  with  the  bruises,  then  with  the  balm  ; 
First  with  pallor,  next  with  flush, 
Moments  of  tumult,  moments  of  hush;  — 
Ever  the  restless  spirit  ranges 
Round  the  ring  of  endless  changes  ; 
Till  at  last  the  touch  of  death 
Breaks  the  circuit  of  the  breath, 
Stops  the  race  of  thought  and  feeling 
Pulses  from  the  nerve-wire  stealing. 
Yet  the  current  floweth  ever, 
For  its  force  is  broken  never. 
What  then  is  the  final  end  ? 
Must  the  struggle  still  extend? 
Is  it  fever,  is  it  frost, 
Peace  ne'er  won,  nor  passion  lost 
Through  the  far  eternity  ? 
Cornel  this  riddle  solve  for  me. 


QJfcfcfe  of  f0e  ^notw  ;  $fafie0. 


Seeds  of  heat  that  whitely  burrow 
In  each  brown  and  frosty  furrow, 
Twirled  and  tangled,  sifted,  slanted, 
By  the  eager  breezes  planted  — 
Spring  in  you  her  wealth  is  keeping, 
In  your  white  her  green  is  sleeping. 
In  your  frozen  friendship,  hearted, 
All  her  blossoms  sweet  are  started  ; 
And  each  flake  that  earthward  settles 
Is  a  nest  for  future  petals. 
Sunbeams  into  crystal  moulded, 
Fire  in  snow  by  Winter  folded, 
June  entombed  in  January  — 
Paradox  that  cannot  vary, 
Who  shall  find  the  end  or  middle 
Of  this  wondrous  snow-flake  riddle  ? 


(By  kind  permission  of  "  The   Youth's  Companion.''1) 
75 


Falling  lightly, 

Falling  whitely 
From  the  upper  to  the  nether, 
Now  apart  and  now  together, 

Turning,  trailing, 

Sinking,  sailing, 

Hide  and  seek  with  zephyr  playing, 
Then  the  call  of  earth  obeying  ; 

Slow  and  agile, 

Fibered,  fragile ; 
Cotton  from  the  fields  of  vapor, 
Snow-wool  tossed  in  whirl  and  caper ; 

Picked  and  folded, 

Carded,  moulded  ; 
By  the  wind-loom  woven  swiftly 
Into  snow-lace  soft  and  drifty, 

Curling,  twisting 

Swirling,  misting, 

Scarf  and  mantle  spun  and  fashioned 
By  the  storm-wheel's  power  impassioned 

Clinging,  winding 

Stinging,  blinding  ; 
Trunk  and  twig  soon  thickly  flaking, 
Sash  and  ribbon  for  them  making ; 

Pillar,  picket, 

Wall  and  wicket 
Decking  with  a  quaint  designing 
For  the  shivering  vine  entwining 

Vesture  pearly 

Looped  and  curly  ; — 
Snow-threads  we,  that  downward  travel, 
That  from  skeins  of  cloud  unravel ; 

76 


Oft  capricious, 

Gentle,  vicious, 

We  the  happy  snow-cloth  makers, 
Carpeting  Earth's  barren  acres, 

Turn  our  duties 

Into  beauties, 

Turn  our  tumult's  wildest  rushes 
Into  flashing,  crystal  hushes, 

While  all  color 

Darker,  duller, 

And  all  things  now  lost  to  brightness, 
Find  salvation  in  our  whiteness. 


(By  kind  courtesy  of  "  The  Youth't  Companion.") 


Her  touch  is  like  the  flutter 
Of  a  rose-leaf  on  my  cheek, 

So  timorous  and  tender, 
So  maiden-coy  and  meek. 

Her  touch  is  like  the  falling 
Of  a  sunbeam  on  my  heart, 

So  warm  and  bright  with  impulse, 
So  full  of  dance  and  dart. 

Her  touch  is  like  the  ripple 
Of  the  breeze  upon  my  brow, 

So  lingering  and  lulling 
And  breathing  of  the  now. 

Her  touch  is  like  the  starbeam 
That  shivers  down  the  night, 

And  chills  where'er  it  falleth 
With  cold  and  frosty  light. 

Her  touch  is  like  the  falling 
Of  fairy  flakes  of  snow, 

So  innocent  yet  heedless 
Of  freezing  all  below. 

Her  touch  with  love  is  sweetened 
Or  soured  with  sudden  hate, 

Within  her  palm's  pink  hollow 
There  sits  her  lover's  fate. 


(Reuemfife  (poem. 


The  dark's  in  the  light, 
The  hush  in  the  sound 

In  the  tumult  of  motion 
Rest  slumbers  profound. 

The  sweet's  in  the  sour, 
The  small's  in  the  great, 

The  will's  in  the  meshes 
Of  merciless  fate. 

The  light's  in  the  dark, 
The  sound's  in  the  hush  ; 

In  the  heart  of  repose 
Is  motion's  loud  rush. 

The  sour's  in  the  sweet. 

The  great's  in  the  small  ; 
And  fate  ever  answers 

The  will's  lightest  call. 

The  first's  in  the  last, 
The  soon's  in  the  late  ; 

Destroy  hath  its  cold 
In  the  heat  of  create. 

The  smile's  in  the  tear, 
The  joy's  in  the  pain, 

The  drought  waiteth  couchant 
In  each  drop  of  rain. 

The  last's  in  the  first, 
The  late's  in  the  soon, 

From  the  dry  lips  of  drought 
Rain  learns  its  sweet  tune. 


The  tear's  in  the  smile, 
The  pain's  in  the  joy, 

Create  hath  its  stars 
In  the  night  of  destroy. 


The  East  called  to  the  West, 
"Where  is  your  place  of  rest  ? 
Lo  !  when  I  give  you  chase 
Around  the  ring  of  space, 
My  grasp  you  still  elude — 
Phantom  of  distance,  shrewd  I 
Is  there  no  common  ground 
In  all  this  weary  round 
Where  we  may  hold  our  tryst 
And  twain  as  one  exist  ? 
How  from  dawn's  purple  height 
My  fancy  sends  its  sight 
O'er  the  gold  bridge  of  day 
To  your  red  plume  so  gay  ; 
Rising  to  greet  the  ken 
Of  earth's  most  under  men, 
Falling,  alas,  to  me  I 
And  ah !  how  enviously, 
Pursuing  sight,  my  touch 
Hobbles  on  Time's  slow  crutch 
To  feel  your  crimson  heart 
Ebb  out  the  words,  'We  part  ' — 
Ere  the  thick  doors  of  night 
Forbid  such  pure  delight  1 
In  vain,  too  late  I  come — 
Your  voice  to  me  is  dumb, 
Vanished  your  beckoning  plume, 
Sullen  the  gates  of  gloom  ; 
Where  rested  you,  I  rest — 
But  west  no  more  is  west. 
Still  with  a  lover's  hope 
Upon  my  quest  I  grope, 

81 


Trusting  there  is  an  end 
That  shall  our  fragments  mend — 
A  point,  a  timeless  place 
Shut  from  the  maw  of  space, 
Where  east  in  west  shall  cease, 
And  west  with  east  have  peace." 


Over  the  white,  under  the  blue, 
I'm  calling,  love,  to  you,  to  you! 
Through  purple  corridors  of  night 
Echoes  the  note  of  my  delight. 
Distance !   'tis  but  the  ether  wall 
That  unto  you  transmits  my  call, 
Space  lends  her  ear  of  crescent  moon 
To  hear  my  heart  beat  out  its  tune, 
Then  runs  to  you  with  vibrant  feet, 
The  tender  cadence  to  repeat ; 
Nor  frosty  air  nor  chill  of  snow 
Retards  that  music's  subtle  flow. 
Let  tinkling  tongues  of  pleasure  tell 
Their  rhapsody  from  bell  to  bell, 
Their  dulcet  din  ne'er  shuts  from  you 
My  voice  between  the  white  and  blue  ; 
Into  the  pores  of  air  I  speak, 
My  sigh  is  wafted  to  your  cheek  ; 
The  kiss  I  press  upon  your  lips 
To  you  upon  a  moonbeam  slips. 
What  need  for  nearer  touch  of  flesh, 
When  through  the  coarse  aerial  mesh 
Our  spirits  pure  so  freely  range, 
Love's  tokens  sweet  to  interchange? 


j* 


"Tis  he  ! 

With  toe  a-tip 

And  laugh  on  lip, 

With  large,  inquiring  eyes 

And  shout  of  glad  surprise  1 

The  wild,  white  music  of  the  snow, 

Beating    its     rhythms    to     and    fro, 

The  red  tune  snapping  from  the  eager  log, 

The  shadows   nestling  soft   in   niche   and  jog  — 

He  heeds  them  not,  for  all  his  soul  is  wide  to  see 

The  gifts  that  cluster  there  around  the   festal  tree. 

Wrapt    in    the    moment    of    his    pure    delight, 

He  knows  not  past  nor  future,  morn  nor  night  ; 

Asleep,    awake,    in    heart    and   brain  — 

His  pleasure  strung  to  pitch  of  pain  — 

Yet    neither.       Ah,    how    blest 

To  find  such  point  of  rest, 

At    God's    own    poise 

Of  griefs  and  joys 

To   be! 


Wrinkled  brow  and  dimpled  chin 
Sat  amid  the  Christmas  din, 
Eager,  each,  with  glowing  heart, 
Gift  and  gladness  to  impart. 
One  looked  down  from  height  of  years 
On  the  scene,  through  mist  of  tears  ; 
One  looked  up  from  childhood's  plane, 
All  untried  in  heart  and  brain. 


Age  in  memory's  fetters  fast 
Saw  a  yuletide  of  the  past, 
When  Hope's  sun  high  on  its  course 
Knew  no  shadow  of  remorse, 
And  when  Death's  horizon  lay 
Wrapt  in  cloudland  far  away. 
Youth  in  expectation's  charm, 
Tossing  toys  from  palm  to  palm, 
Saw  naught  in  the  world  amiss, 
Felt  no  limit  of  his  bliss. 


Age  looked  through  the  book  of  yore — 
Every  page  was  wrinkled  o'er, 
Blotted  oft,  and  thumbed  with  care, 
Showing  only  here  and  there 
Tender  joys,  like  rose  leaves  pressed, 
Breathing  still  their  fragrance  blest. 
Youth  with  eye  and  ear  attune,     • 
Only  knew  December — June — 
This  with  all  its  frosty  fun, 
That  with  scent  and  song  and  sun. 


Dimpled  chin  and  wrinkled  brow, 
Blending  in  the  happy  now — 
Ah,  how  strange  the  man  should  gain 
Happiness  through  gates  of  pain 
And  the  bright,  unthinking  boy 
Find  his  woe  through  doors  of  joy. 


Qttorn 


O  morn  !  that  breaks  in  golden  gleams 

Over  the  eastern  rim  of  night, 
Kissing  the  flowerets  from  their  dreams 

Till  from  their  petal  lips  so  bright 
The  spirit  of  each  blossom  fair, 

Enwrapped  in  perfume,  softly  steals 
To  sweeten  all  the  amber  air 

And  hover  o'er  the  dewy  fields,  — 

Immortal  morn  !  whose  glorious  beams 

Break  o'er  the  sombre  "erge  of  death 
Waking  the  soul  from  earthly  dreams 

Till  from  the  lips,  that  vital  breath, 
That  chord  of  unheard  music  floats 

To  swell  the  sweet,  ethereal  strain 
And  add  another  stave  of  notes 

From  life's  great  scale  of  joy  and  pain,  — 

O  night  1  that  creeps  with  silvery  feet 

Over  the  far  funereal  gray, 
Breathing  a  requiem  flowery  sweet 

Through  all  the  twilight  tomb  of  day,  — 
O  death  !  whose  dread  indelible  stain 

Blots  out  the  spirit's  golden  shine, 
Dark'ning  our  whitest  joy  with  pain, 

Hiding  the  page  of  life  divine,  — 

The  mystery  that  fills  ye  all, 

Our  reverent  search  must  e'er  invite  ; 
But  though  your  names  we  loudly  call  — 

What's  death,  or  life,  or  morn,  or  night? 


lllllPwW'Tll V  018     0 


